


Arcade Suburbia

by Antimonicacid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining, Small Towns, claude's a loser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28694286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid
Summary: Upon learning that Claude had never been to their local arcade, Dimitri resolves to to fix that immediately. Claude may or may not be crushing in the process.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 100





	Arcade Suburbia

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [Broildyne](https://twitter.com/broildyne?s=20) <3

The old arcade was a staple of their town, its history spanning back to the 80s, carrying the weight of bored high schoolers’ interest for decades on. Claude hadn’t ever been, something Dimitri had claimed to be criminal before insisting that they alleviate this grievous misstep of his as soon as possible. Claude had agreed, of course. He liked arcades and he liked hanging out, so it only seemed natural enough a conclusion. He may have liked Dimitri too, but that was something he had chosen to ignore at the moment.

The inside of the arcade was as tacky as Dimitri had promised. The floors were lined with classic galaxy style carpeting, specifically designed to hide the mix of grime and spilled cola. Posted along the walls were dozens of classic movie posters. Originals, Claude was sure, ranging from _Beetlejuice_ and _The Breakfast Club_ to _Akira_ and _Roger Rabbit._ Most notable of all were the games. A huge collection of machines that told the story of the world of gaming throughout the 80’s and 90’s. The sound that echoed throughout the building was a cacophony of theme songs and game overs; the dings of high scores and chatter of children winning.

It was the type of business that Claude thrived on, and when he looked over to Dimitri, he could see a look of smug pride in guessing correctly.

“See?” Dimitri insisted while pushing his blond bangs out of his eyes. “Sometimes small towns can be fun.”

Claude laughed. It was an argument they’d been having for the last few months since he moved here. Dimitri’s stubborn determination in proving the value of his sleepy hometown; Claude’s teasing arrogance about the superior merits of a big city.

“I’m pretty sure cities have arcades too,” Claude defended himself.

“Not like this,” Dimitri replied back. He wasn’t wrong.

Before Claude could think of some smart aleck response, he was being pulled forward and led away. He always forgot how freakishly strong Dimitri was until the other boy would grow too excited, too fast, and forget himself in managing his grip. It didn’t bother Claude, even when he yelped as he was yanked along toward an unknown destination.

“Here,” Dimitri said as he stopped in front of an old, silver change machine. “We need quarters,” he explained and pulled out a few bills.

“Oh, I got it,” Claude told him and reached for his own wallet.

Dimitri shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m the one who invited you on this excursion in the first place. It would be my pleasure to pay for your Pac-Man experience.”

Claude rolled his eyes, even as a grin stuck on his face, bright and dopey. “You must make an excellent date.”

The corners of Dimitri’s eyes crinkled as he huffed a small laugh. “Well, I would hope so.”

A tingle bolted up Claude’s spine at the same time that a robotic and highly accented Russian voice chimed out “ _LOSER!”_

“Someone lost to Igor,” Dimitri said, like it was just another fact of life.

“And who is Igor?” Claude asked.

“Igor is an old friend,” Dimitri explained, already beginning to walk away. “We can see him later, but first, Pac-Man. It’s tradition.”

Claude laughed. It was rare for him to see Dimitri so excited to follow the structure of tradition. Somehow, Dimitri seemed to stick his nose up in disdain at Garreg Mach High School’s forever expanding list of rules and tradition, but still held the culture of the arcade in high regard.

It was fun, listening to Dimitri explain how Pac-Man was the first machine installed here years and years ago, and how it was a show of respect for one’s first game to be with “The OG.”

Claude was pretty sure Dimitri had no idea what OG actually meant, judging by the way he pronounced it with careful syllables “Oh Gee.”

“And who told you about it being the OG?” Claude asked.

Dimitri flushed at the question. “Glenn had explained it the first time he took Felix and I here.”

“And who told Glenn?” Claude pried on.

“From my understanding, his father,” Dimitri said. “There isn’t much to do in town. The arcade ends up a pastime for most of the teenagers,” he admitted.

That was another thing that Dimitri pronounced in a funny way. _Teenagers_ , as if he was speaking of a group separate from him, as if he wasn’t also a junior in high school.

“Alright then,” Claude agreed. “Pac-Man it is. Gotta pay respect to the original gangster.”

Confusion swept across Dimitri’s face as he blinked without comprehending. “Wait, what gangster?”

-

Claude tried his hand at Pac-Man and absolutely crushed it. Kinda. At the very least he went down with style. They jumped from game to game, quarters jangling into slots and well-worn buttons being pressed with rapid thumbs to a tune of tinny music and overly dramatic explosions. It was exciting to watch Dimitri entranced in the world of Frogger as he narrowly dodged cars and trucks to make his little amphibian way home.

In true Dimitri fashion, he took each game seriously. His entire focus would become devoted to whatever objective was in front of him, as he stared at the screen with intense eyes and a flare of determination.

It didn’t make him any better at the game, unfortunately.

“Aw, drat,” Dimitri whined as his frog was smeared across the pixelated road.

“You’re supposed to avoid those, you know,” Claude offered up unwelcome advice.

Dimitri pursed his lips, seeming to take his words into consideration, before shaking his head and disregarding the comment. “No, it’s definitely the game that is broken.”

His voice was drought dry as he turned away to look for the next game to lose at. Claude grinned in a way that he knew had to make him look goofy. He liked that Dimitri was funny. He liked that at times it seemed like other people didn’t realize. He was sure that if someone overheard, they would have assumed Dimitri to be serious with his deadpan delivery, but as Claude had learned several times over in the past semester, Dimitri was full of surprises.

Dimitri proposed the idea of visiting the food court, a suggestion that had Claude’s stomach growling at the prospect of heartburn inducing nachos and overly cheesed pizza. Before he could agree with enthusiastic cheer, the same boasting voice declaring _LOOOOSER_ boomed out in a thick, overzealous Russian accent.

“Igor again?” Claude inquired.

Dimitri nodded. “He’s a tough one.”

Curiosity rippled through Claude like an electric current. “Well? Are you going to introduce me?”

Dimitri huffed out a sigh. “If you insist.”

Food court temporarily abandoned, the pair weaved their way through the sparsely dispersed crowd of arcade goers, until Dimitri pulled them to a stop with a tug on Claude’s elbow. He couldn’t help but wonder if his touch had truly lingered, or if that was a wishful fabrication of his mind, willing the extra attention into reality.

He didn’t have too long to speculate–although he was sure he’d have ample time to unpack all of it with the help of Hilda later tonight through text–before he was forced to actually take in the sight before him.

What stood in front of Claude was a man’s torso, sculpted out of hard plastic, and painted with garish shades of reds and blues. His body was built like a shit brickhouse with bulging pecs visible through his gaudy bodysuit, and thick veins scoring the expanse of his massive biceps. His facial expression was one of intense determination, with foreboding white brows pulled downwards that contrasted sharply against the rosy blush painted in perfect circles on his cheeks.

As Claude stared in abject horror, trying to parse through what he was even looking at, a beefy arm swung down swift enough to cut the air between them, and at the same time, the figure’s mouth fell open revealing a small speaker where his throat should be.

 _“VHAT’S UP, COMRADE?”_ he demanded to know.

“This is Igor,” Dimitri told with the same nonchalance of introducing an old friend. “He’s a remnant from the Cold War,” he explained.

Claude blinked, taking in everything before him, from the terror inducing depiction of what he supposed must be a man, to the way Dimitri leaned against him, clearly serious when he described Igor as an old friend.

“This is terrible,” Claude gasped. “I love it,” he said with far too much emotion choking up his windpipe.

If there was one thing that was always guaranteed to draw Claude’s attention, it was things with abnormal origins. He loved weird shit like this. A snippet of history told in the worst possible fashion, in all the mildly offensive charm a small town could offer.

“I want to play,” Claude told Dimitri without hesitation, already examining the game from head to coin slot as he tried to puzzle out what the objective even was.

Dimitri scratched the back of his head, seeming unsure about the request. “Igor’s not really something you beat,” he explained.

“So, he’s for decoration?” Claude asked. “He looks like a game.”

Dimitri shrugged as he explained. “No, it’s just that he’s a strength game, but a ridiculous one. Whoever put him together messed something up in his programming and made it so his calibration is completely shot.”

Claude frowned. “So, he’s unbeatable?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s a whole thing. If you beat Igor, then you get a prize and your picture on the wall. It’s silly, but not really meant to be beat.”

He considered it for a second, soaking in Dimitri’s warning and carefully mulling it over. “Okay, I wanna try it,” he said, already moving to begin the game.

Dimitri stepped aside to allow him space as Claude took Igor’s rough, decades old hand into his own and waited through the game’s slow winding beginning.

“ _VOULD YOU CARE TO FIGHT, COMRADE?”_ Igor inquired.

“Is fighting really necessary?” Claude replied back in a teasing tone. “ _Vould you care to kees?_ ” he asked instead.

Dimitri laughed.

“Hey, I think I’m nailing the accent,” Claude defended himself.

Dimitri shot him two thumbs up in his own vaguely European approval.

“ _YOU HAVE A BRAVE SOUL,”_ Igor responded without acknowledging Claude’s request. “ _BUT TODAY YOU VILL BE VANQUISHED.”_

With a half-formed quip on the edge of his tongue, Claude was cut off with a sudden force he had not foreseen. He barely had time to register what was happening when his whole body was spilled over and his arm slammed into the tabletop surface of the game’s body.

“ _LOOOOOSER!_ ” Igor screamed for the whole arcade to hear. “ _YOU HAVE MADE YOUR COUNTRY CRY TEARS OF DEEP SORROW.”_

With a scowl, Claude dusted himself off as he stared daggers at Igor. “I wasn’t even born here,” he complained.

Dimitri’s laugh was good natured, but the ‘ _I told you so’_ was still infuriatingly present. “It happens.”

“It’s impossible,” Claude said. “I want my quarter back.”

“It’s not impossible, it’s just difficult,” Dimitri said.

Claude cocked his head at the implied challenge in his voice. “Are you saying you could win?”

“Naturally.”

It’s only reasonable for Claude to hold him to his word.

“I want the prize,” Claude said, already teasing him. “I mean, if you can manage it, I guess.”

“Which one?” Dimitri asked as he too slipped a quarter into the machine and grasped Igor’s hand. “Pegasus, wyvern, or minion?”

Claude pretended to think on it, even if he already knew the answer. “The wyvern, definitely.” 

Finally, Igor started up with the same speech of before. “ _VOULD YOU CARE TO FIGHT, COMRADE?”_

“If it’s not too much trouble, Igor, then let’s have a sporting match,” Dimitri told him.

“Could use more Russian,” Claude criticized.

“Повеселимся!” Dimitri shot off instead.

“Ehh, I’m not buying it,” Claude said with a roll of his eyes.

“ _YOU HAVE A BRAVE SOUL,”_ Igor responded without acknowledging Claude’s request. “ _BUT TODAY YOU VILL BE VANQUISHED.”_

“Well,” Dimitri sounded far too nonchalant. “Потанцуем?”

For a moment Claude thought the machine had broken. Instead of Dimitri flying back in a similarly embarrassing fashion as Claude had before, he remained standing perfectly still. The sound of the machine’s gears grinding was what made it apparent that this was no malfunction.

Dimitri strained against Igor, both hands holding Igor’s monstrous own, and with slow, unreal patience Igor began to shift backwards.

With each inch gained, Igor spouted out another cheesy line that would be at home in a poorly funded 80’s action comedy, but Dimitri didn’t allow that to distract him. Claude watched with unabashed wonderment as Dimitri stayed true to his word, pushing and stressing against Igor’s awesome strength until finally, amazingly, he reigned victor.

A flash of lights dazzled on the game’s body, and with it, Igor’s mouth fell open in its cartoonish way to declare his own defeat.

“ _FOR NOW, YOU VIN, MY PATRIOTIC FOE!”_

Dimitri smiled sweetly, barely a glint of sweat marking his brow. “Thanks, Igor. I love you too.”

“Okay,” Claude said finally. “Color me impressed.”

The small smile on Dimitri’s face bloomed into a wide grin at the praise. “Would you like to collect your prize then?” he asked as he jutted his chin out towards the prize table where an older man seemed to be rolling his eyes at Dimitri across the room. Claude got the distinct impression that this was not the first time Dimitri had successfully bested the Red Scare Menace.

“What should I name the plush?” Claude asked, already thinking of the possibilities.

Whatever thought was on his mind stopped, a quick short circuiting of Claude's brain as Dimitri reached for his hand and threaded their fingers together.

_Okay okay okay._

Holding hands. That was something they were doing. A definitively date-like experience. 

“I’m terrible at names,” Dimitri admitted. “But I’ll try to help you think of one.”


End file.
